When Is a Murder Not a Murder?
by HallowedJoke
Summary: "Say Sir," Said Harry at last after an uncomfortable moment of silence, "Riddle me this; when's a murder not a murder?" He inched forward, running a pink tongue across lips stained with drying blood. The Auror remained silent, unwilling to play along with another inmates inane antics. Azkaban!Harry


**NOTE: **Not Beta'd. _This is a Post-War fic. I know the I.D of inmates is different to how I labeled it but I find it simpler this way. The prisoner I.D that you'll see in the story, __**no. 073180**__ is Harry Potters birthdate. In the Wiki it's said that Shacklebolt purged Azkaban of Dementors and left Guards in their place; while that is MOSTLY the case, there's still gonna be Dementors in this prison, just not as much as before. See them simply as guard dogs, a last-ditch effort of fortifying and protecting the guards or civilization if another break-out were to happen though their presence still greatly affects the inmates and especially affects Harry. Azkaban ALSO tattoos the inmates number onto their necks so if it's not written in this story, assume that Harry has that number forever tainting his skin. This is also a __GEN__ fic._

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A man-made beast, once man himself grinned unnervingly as blood dripped from his putrid maw and bled down his chin onto the filthy cavern floor of Britain's most fearsome prison. The victim, his target of that particular day, was pressing himself snugly against the wall opposite from the grinning man, a look of shock and pain awash on his features as he held a bloody hand against his openly weeping neck wound.

The man was an Auror, a being which equaled a police officer in magical terms and he wore a thick grey cloak, a thing which was custom in the Auror's line of profession. The balding guard was still in shock when Harry took a large step forward, pressing his still grinning face against the rusted bars of Azkaban and he chided the man in a hallowed rasping voice, "Shame. One would think logically that you really ought to watch yourself around the inmates, with most of us being insane and all." Harry chortled, as if he told a particularly good joke and the Auror continued to stare in unabashed disbelief. It'd only been when he felt the cold touch of a Dementor's incoming presence that he was brought back to the present and he sounded the alarm. It screeched through the halls in an echoing cacophony which mixed seamlessly with the screams and howls of many of the other inmates. The footfalls of multiple guards were telling and Harry took a step back, hiding himself within the depths of his cell's thick shadows as his laugh joined in with the rowdiness the alarm had caused.

The Auror turned guard had long since passed by the time the mans companions finally reached him; had he been nearer to the ground floor, Harry was sure the man would have lived, but it appeared, unsurprisingly, that witches and wizards weren't all that smart, what with having no infirmary on site, nor no means of quick transportation. No, if something happened, the guards would have to run up all forty floors to see Harry himself – or stop a potential break-out which, really, was just asking for trouble. "Inmate 073180 appear before your superior!" Harry snorted stepping out from the shadows as he grinned with blood and flesh still staining his yellowing teeth. Harry easily ignored the multiple wands pointed at him, much to a few of the guards' ire. "Reporting for duty, _sir_." Quipped the inmate, grinning wider as he witnessed first-hand the horror his assault had caused. The guards situated around their deceased friend stared unblinkingly as green tinted their varying skin tones, eyes unmoving from their place on Harry or the dead body sitting before their feet.

The guard in charge continued to speak but Harry paid him and his companions little to no mind. His grin stayed perched on his lips and his eyes gazed at them with a sort of vacantness that Luna Lovegood would most likely be proud of. He'd been in prison for three years now, since the fated day of Tom Riddles downfall. He'd been angry at first, of course he had been, he'd been arrested for _murder_. A murder which he didn't technically commit because all he used was Expelliarmus, a _disarming_ spell, taught in _fourth_ year. He'd been seventeen when Voldemort was defeated. Seventeen when he'd been imprisoned for murder while many of his other comrades were able to walk free with blood on their hands. Neville, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione...They were all guilty of murder, just as he was. _It was War for Merlin sake._ The only difference was that they willingly spilt blood while Harry had been adamant about _peace. _He never wanted to fight in a war that wasn't even his. He'd been born during it, sure. And yes, he lost his parents to it but many children had lost their parents in war, it wasn't uncommon. It didn't even make sense that they'd think he'd willingly fight in an unknown war that he hadn't even grown up in but he _did_. And he won. And with freedom came a price. The price of _his_ freedom, _his _life, _his _sanity and he found it wanting. It wasn't worth it, not to him. He didn't care about any of the people living in the Wizarding World. Some, maybe, but most had passed during his time in that dreadful world and the rest weren't even allowed to _see_ him.

So yes, maybe Harry had been angry. Maybe he still was but his anger was justified, it was _deserved_. They had done nothing but drag him through the mud with vitriol and slander when he'd been just a child, it sickened him. How immature and ugly the Wizarding World was; how undeserving they were to be saved by him, a target of their anger and abuse. They were no better than the abusive muggles they threw him at.

Harry's grin had long since faded with these thoughts and blazing fury took it's place. The Auror's watched wearily until the commanding officer ordered them to remove the fallen guard and to alert the Ministry. "And someone turn that damn alarm off!" He hissed. The sudden silence pulled Harry from his dark musings yet the familiar grin didn't make a comeback. A smirk tainted his lips and he stared at the commanding officer with sharp intelligence; and unnerving trait for someone so broken by the Dementor's presence. "Say Sir," Said Harry at last after an uncomfortable moment of silence, "Riddle me this; when's a murder _not_ a murder?" He inched forward, running a pink tongue across lips stained with drying blood. The Auror remained silent, unwilling to play along with another inmates inane antics. "Aw, don't be such a party-pooper, Robards, it's just a simple question!" Harry paused again, pressing himself against the the bars with dangerous grace. He grinned with childlike innocence with unsettling insanity infested green eyes. "When," He repeated, his voice dropping in octave in warning, eyes sharp and daring. "is a murder _not_ a murder, Robards?" The Auror sighed wearily, suddenly tired with a heaviness in his heart that beat in nervous energy. "I don't know inmate, when?" He asked. It'd always been better to forgo their names. It always humanized them and to humanize them in a place like Akzaban was just asking for injury in some way or another. A sudden giggle rang in the still hallway of floor forty. It unnerved the Auror; it felt like the other inmates were holding their breath, waiting for the very same answer he was. "When their names _aren't_ Harry Potter!" The Boy-Who-Lived threw his head back in righteous laughter, bitter fury tinged his green eyes as his hands clenched around rusted bars. It was an on going joke, it seemed, for all the inmates on floor forty soon joined in on the laughter with said Boy-Who-Lived. Head Auror Robards walked away from the dingy cell with the feeling of eyes burning into his back and the sound of Harry Potters laugh turned sobs ringing in his ears.


End file.
